Human connections are both simple and complex. They begin without warning, end without ceremony, and yet — some linger like the scent of rain long after the cloud has moved on.
I’ve often wondered why certain faces or gestures stay etched in memory.
The world is full of people we pass like signboards on a highway, but a few — a very few — touch something wordless in us and leave a smile that refuses to fade.
Robert Schwartz, in his book Your Soul’s Plan, says we might have a “soul team” — people who appear in our lives exactly when we need them. Some stay, some just help us cross a street, literally or metaphorically, and then vanish.
Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not.
But either way, it pays to be kind, welcoming, and open to the small miracles of friendliness.
Because sometimes, kindness comes disguised as a ride on a confusing New Jersey street.
Years ago, I was in the U.S. on a two-week business visit. I didn’t have an international driving permit, which in America is like not having legs. My client, considerate, had put me up in a building next to the office. It sounded convenient — until I discovered that “next to” in New Jersey meant “divided by four lanes of traffic, two manic roundabouts, and a footpath that gave up halfway.”
Crossing to the office each morning felt like performing a daredevil act minus the applause.
My husband happened to be in a nearby state in the US and decided to visit me over the weekend. It was a sweet plan — except that he too lacked the sacred internal driving rights. No Uber then, no smartphone maps, no “share live location.” It feels ancient now to even write that sentence.
Somewhere between optimism and panic, I remembered an old acquaintance from Orkut days — yes, the pre-historic social media of polite testimonials and friendship scraps. We had worked briefly together years ago, never kept in touch, but I knew he lived in New Jersey.
I sent him a hesitant message, asking if he could just guide my husband to the right bus stop or give him directions.
He replied within minutes — “Don’t worry, I’ll pick him up.”
It was a Friday night. He probably had plans. Yet, without a second thought, he drove across town, picked my husband up, dropped him at my place, said a quick hello, and left.
No drama. No long conversations. Just that small, thoughtful act.
I still remember feeling a rush of gratitude so deep it made my eyes sting. I wasn’t stranded or in danger, just mildly confused in a foreign land. But that simple gesture made me feel something rare — cared for.
There’s a peculiar intimacy in being helped by someone who has nothing to gain. Maybe that’s what we miss in our perfectly mapped digital lives today — the spontaneity of kindness, the quiet grace of someone showing up because they can.
That memory has stayed with me for nearly two decades. Not because it was extraordinary, but because it was casual and yet unforgettable.
Much like another evening — one closer to home.
It was a rainy day in Chennai, which in itself is an event worth documenting. I was leaving my office at TIDEL Park — a familiar fortress of glass, code, and crowds.
My father, a man of practical foresight, had made me carry an umbrella big enough to shelter a small family. “It’s the monsoon,” he had said gravely, which in Chennai usually means a drizzle once every three weeks.
But that evening, his prophecy held.
As I stepped out, rain began its steady performance, blurring lights and soaking pavements. I opened my oversized umbrella — more a small canopy than a rain cover — and began the long walk toward the main gate. Anyone who’s worked in TIDEL Park knows that stretch — long and perfect for introspection or existential dread, depending on your project deadlines.
I’d barely walked a few steps when I heard footsteps behind me, quick and hesitant. A man — probably a fellow tech commuter — ran up and said, almost apologetically, “Excuse me, can I walk with you till the gate? I don’t have an umbrella.”
I nodded, because honestly, my umbrella had the capacity for both of us and a small motorbike.
He was tall, which made it easier — he took the handle, angled it so the rain didn’t whip across us, and we began walking. Just two strangers sharing temporary shade under a stubborn drizzle.
We started talking. Nothing deep — work, rain, traffic, why Chennai autos behave like they’re auditioning for Fast & Furious. But the conversation flowed easily, like we’d known each other longer than the few minutes since the gate.
At one point he said, “You know, this umbrella deserves an appreciation certificate.”
I laughed. “It’s my dad’s influence. He believes preparedness is the highest virtue.”
He nodded gravely. “Dads and their weather prophecies. Mine still thinks carrying a torch is essential in case of power cuts.”
By the time we reached the gate, the rain had softened, and so had the evening. We paused, smiled, said the usual “nice meeting you,” and went our separate ways. No exchange of numbers, no names, no attempts to stay in touch. Just two soaked professionals who happened to share a walk.
If you’re reading this and remember walking to the TIDEL Park gate with a woman carrying a ridiculous umbrella twenty years ago — yes, it was me.
I think of that walk often. Maybe because it was such a perfect metaphor for connection — two paths overlapping briefly, long enough to make the rain feel lighter.
Over the years, I’ve met many such people — kindness in passing.
A stranger helping with directions, a colleague offering chai when words fail, a neighbour who remembers your dog’s name but not yours.
They may not stay in your story, but they appear exactly when the plot needs them.
Perhaps we underestimate these fleeting bonds. We glorify permanence — best friends, lifelong mentors, “ride or die” companions — but life, in its quiet wisdom, gives us many smaller connections. The kind that don’t need definitions or contact lists.
They remind us that goodness still exists, that help still arrives unannounced, that we are never as alone as we think.
Sometimes, on hard days, I find comfort not in grand declarations of love or loyalty, but in those small, nameless moments of shared humanity — a smile from a stranger, a held umbrella, an assuring call, or a prayer offered with love.
Maybe that’s what “soul teams” really are. Not dramatic, predestined reunions, but everyday kindnesses woven into our path to keep us from hardening too much.
And if it isn’t some cosmic plan, if it’s just people being nice — even better. It means we still have the choice to be that person for someone else.
So I’ve learned to say yes — to conversations, to helping, to smiling back. To letting a moment be what it is without rushing to frame it into something more.
Because human connections, like train journeys or shared umbrellas, don’t need to last forever to mean something.
They just need to happen sincerely.
And who knows — years from now, someone might remember you too. Not for what you said or did, but for how you made them feel on a rainy walk or a confusing Friday night in New Jersey.
Maybe they’ll smile, like I do now, and think — some souls really do travel together, even if only for a few stops.
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